The Hunt
by The She Devil
Summary: Nick enjoys hunting just as much as he enjoys the catch. But can he handle it once he has it? Nick/Greg slash. Spoilers for season 9. Last chapter up.
1. Chapter 1

TITLE: The Hunt

AUTHOR: The She Devil

EMAIL: urbaybeedoll13 at yahoo

CATEGORY: Romance? Drama? I don't know.

RATING: Mature for sexuality.

SPOILERS: None. Also, obviously this doesn't take place after the latest season finale.

ARCHIVE: Please ask first.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything.

SUMMARY: Nick enjoys hunting just as much as he enjoys the catch. Nick/Greg slash. I couldn't help myself.

--

It was late. So late it was early. The sun always seemed to sneak up on Nick Stokes while he was inside the windowless Crime Lab. It would be dark when he entered, dark in the halls, dark in the rooms, and then all of a sudden he would push open the doors to leave after a long shift and have the unforgiving Nevada sun rising in his eyes. Although, to work the night shift and see all of the evil in the world (or, at least, in Las Vegas), and then to leave in the morning and have the sun still rise, kind of gave him a little bit of hope.

"So tell me again," Catherine Willows said, grasping a piece of bacon between two delicate fingers as they sat at their favorite diner for breakfast. "Where did you get the bright idea to check the car again?"

"Me," Greg Sanders chimed in before Nick could even open his mouth. He spoke around a mouthful of pancakes, glancing up only briefly from his plate. "I found the trace evidence on the driving gloves Wyland Truman Mayweather the Third was so fond of," he finished, adding quite a pretentious accent to the murderer's name.

"Yeah, as usual," Warrick Brown stated, a smile gripping at the corner of his lips as he stabbed crisp hash-browns with his fork, "Greg cracked the case."

"Wide open!"

"Easy there, Tiger," Nick said. "I think all that sugar you're ingesting is getting to your head. Are you sure you don't want some pancakes with your syrup?"

"Ha," Greg replied with sarcasm. "Where haven't I heard that before?"

"All right, boys," Catherine interrupted, dropping her napkin onto her plate. "It's getting early and I'm tired. My bed is calling me."

"Is it calling me too?" Greg asked.

"You wish." She slid out of her seat, grabbing her jacket and check. "I think Nicky was right about all that sugar."

"Yeah, I'm gonna head out too," Warrick interjected. He stood up beside Catherine, grabbing her check. "Don't worry, I got this."

"Oh!" Catherine said, her eyebrows raising as she smiled. "You know this doesn't mean my bed will be calling you either."

"Ha, ha," Warrick said, indicating the cashier. "Let's go."

They exchanged goodbyes, and Nick followed them with his eyes until their cars drove their separate ways into the desert. He wondered what it was like to be Catherine and know there was someone waiting at home for her. Someone who loved her and was always relieved to see her walk through the door, even if they were mad at one another.

Nick had only experienced that feeling once, when his coffin had opened to reveal his small family waiting for him, the love in their eyes more intense than the hot Nevada sun. It had seared him just the same, leaving an impression deep within his heart that he would never forget. He just wished he could have that every day.

Maybe he should just pop out a child. He knew the statistics. It seemed simple enough. All you had to do was insert Tab A into Slot B and -- bam! -- you had yourself a kid.

"Ahem," he heard, from the one in front of him. "It's rude to stare out into space and think of places you'd rather be when you have company, you know."

Nick couldn't help but smile. "Then let's get out of here."

"You're kidding, right?" the younger man asked. "It's, like, eight in the morning. We have to be back tonight."

"Okay," Nick said, shrugging as he folded his hands over the table, his empty plate pushed forward. It had been a long night, and he really would like to grab a drink somewhere. He knew it was early in the morning, and if he didn't work nights he would've considered an AA meeting instead. And while he wouldn't consider grabbing a drink with Greg on a usual basis, the young man had been chosen by default, having still been sitting here when everyone else was ready to call it a night -- or, day, rather.

"What?" Greg asked, in response.

"Nothing."

"What!"

"Nothing! It's just that," Nick replied, almost off-handedly, "when I was your age, I remember partying my ass off, taking a nap for a couple hours and then waking up refreshed and ready for my shift."

"Yeah, really, when you were my age?" Greg asked, pulling a face. He splayed out his legs in front of him, his calf brushing Nick's. "Well, let me tell you, things have changed since the fifties, you can't just -- "

A sticky napkin interrupted his quip, leaving a trail of syrup across Greg's face. "Excuse me! That was rude."

"Yeah, like what you were about to say wasn't," Nick said. "So...where are we headed?"

"I can't believe you're making me do this."

"What's a matter, Greggo, you a lightweight?"

"No," he denied. "You can't even imagine how many drinks I can hold."

It turned out that, if you had asked Nick to imagine just how many drinks Greg could hold, he would've guessed wrong -- because he would've overshot the accurate amount by at least 75 percent.

They had gone to a bar at the Montecito. Much like the Crime Lab, it had no windows, allowing time to pass for the patrons as smoothly as it's liquor passed over their tongues. Unfortunately for Greg, it passed a little too smoothy. Currently, he was relaying a story involving an experimental software that could take the photographs of a man and a woman and combine them to create several images of what their offspring would most likely look like. And, after talking in a few circles, Greg was mentioning how ugly Warrick and Gil Grissom's babies would be.

"Wait a second," Nick said, his features displaying his puzzlement even as his lips displayed his amusement. "I thought this was a software that put men and women together. Not men and other men."

"Well, yeah," Greg replied, his words slow and deliberate. "But the computer doesn't know that. Also, don't have any babies with Sarah."

"Really."

"Noooo," Greg said, his eyes wide, his face very serious. "Please, no."

"Calm down, Greg," the older man replied, his hand patting his coworker's knee comfortingly. "I don't think that'll be happening any time soon."

"Anytime never," Greg stated. He attempted to sip more Bombay Sapphire and tonic from his straw, but the loud slurping sound that followed caused his face to fall. "I think I need another drink. Bartender!"

"No, no, no," Nick said, taking his empty glass and signaling for a check. "I think that's enough. I'll take you -- "

"Hey, hey," Greg insisted, his hand clasped around Nick's as he handed the bartender his check card. "One more for the road."

"What happened to working tonight and -- "

"Hey, you could at least finish what you started."

"Greg," Nick said firmly, an eyebrow raised.

Greg held up hands in surrender. "Fine. Take me home. I guess old timers can't party like they used to. Hey, I can get this."

"Don't worry about it, you'll owe me one," Nick said, signing his check. He left more than twenty percent, having been a bartender in Las Vegas before and knowing how stingy the tourists could be. "Thanks, man," he said, to the bartender. "Come on, Greggo, let's get you to bed."

"Alone?" he asked, and Nick pulled a face. Greg's face fell once more. "Alone."

The car ride home was mostly quiet. Greg was dozing in the passenger's side, his leg's splayed like they were in the diner, his hand resting on his groin. Nick could see him in his peripheral vision, hear his breath softly escaping from his partly open mouth.

"You don't want to make a baby?" Greg suddenly asked, almost startling Nick as he broke the silence.

"Someday," he replied, shaking his head. "I just don't see myself settling down anytime soon."

"You don't want to find a mate?"

"Right now," Nick said, smiling, "I think I'd just like to mate in general. Besides, hunting is a lot more fun."

"Why wouldn't you make a baby with Sara?"

"What? Greg, you are seriously weird."

"You said you wouldn't make a baby with Sara," Greg persisted, peering at Nick from underneath blond bangs. "Why?"

"Sara isn't exactly my type," Nick replied, shrugging.

"What is your type?"

"I don't know," he replied. "Someone more...feminine. No offense to Sara, but I like a girl who can wear some lipstick and a sexy dress and not feel out of place."

"Oh." Nick heard the disappointed tone and assumed it was aimed as his poor choice of words.

"Don't get me wrong," Nick said, trying to backtrack so he didn't sound like such a chauvinist pig. "Sara can be sexy...I'm sure...when she wants to be."

Greg cracked a crooked smile, the look in his eyes almost smug. "I've never seen you with a woman."

Nick furrowed his brow as they pulled up in front of Greg's apartment. He didn't exactly like the sound of that. He put the SUV in park, the engine still running, cool air conditioning making it's best attempt to keep Nick's sweat at bay. "What is that supposed to mean?" he asked, turning to face the younger man.

"Nothing," Greg replied, almost lazily. "Just saying."

"No, what is that supposed to mean?"

Greg didn't answer. Instead, he opened the car door and stepped outside, hot air entering the car in waves. "Thanks for the ride."

Nick pursed his lips. He was almost going to leave, but there was something about that last comment that bothered him, so much so that killed the engine and got out of the car. He came around the front, closing the door behind him, keys in hand. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Greg turned, his back towards the car, his face showing his surprise. "Don't expect to say something like that and think I'm going to let you get away with it. I take you out for a drink and pay the tab, and you're going to make snide comments?"

"I wasn't making a snide comment," Greg replied, licking his dry lips before they skinned across his teeth, forming a shit-eating grin that fit him well. "I was just saying that I've never seen you with a woman. You taking it so personally might say something about your character."

"My character?" Nick spat. He came up close to Greg. "Maybe since you're trashed I'm not understanding your train of thought. Care to explain it to me?"

"You want men," he said, more blunt than Nick expected. The smile was still there, and Nick was tempted to wipe it from his face.

"What?" Nick asked, incredulous. Who did Greg think he was? Nick really was beginning to regret taking him out for a drink. The young man was turning out to be an incredibly annoying drunk. "Greg, you -- "

"You want me."

His smile was so self-assured, matching the look in his half-closed eyes, and Nick snapped in an anger only seen in rare bursts. He grabbed the CSI's collar, pushing him up against the SUV, their bodies flush. The heat emanating off of Greg's body was more intense than the desert, the heat in his eyes more intense than the sun.

"Say it again and see what happens, you smart-mouthed punk," Nick challenged, Greg's shirt balled in his fists. "I will wipe that grin right off your face."

Greg said it again. And Nick wiped the grin off of his face. With his own mouth. His lips pressed hard against the younger man's, his teeth hitting Greg's. He felt the smaller body under his, felt Greg's groin against his thigh, felt Greg's breath against his face. Hands were under his shirt, on his back, tracing muscles that had been carefully garnered through hours of hard work and training. His own hands explored a body very different from his -- very different from any he'd ever explored before -- and he liked the way it felt lithe yet strong beneath his fingertips. He liked the way Greg's lips matched his body. He had never kissed a man before, but he liked it.

Nick pulled away as abruptly as he had began, breathing hard, his fists once again wrapped tight around Greg's collar. He didn't meet Greg's eyes at first, but soon looked up from underneath dark eyelashes. The young man's lips were swollen from their kiss, his mouth red from Nick's five o'clock shadow. The grin was also gone, replaced by a quite serious expression.

"We'd make pretty babies."

Nick actually smiled, stepping back and letting go. The shit that came out of Greg's mouth sometimes, always at the right moment. "You think so?"

"Yeah."

"I'll see you at work tonight," he said, walking back towards the driver's side. "Get some rest."

Greg stepped away from the SUV and onto the sidewalk. His expression was wary, his mouth open as if he wanted to say something, but he didn't speak.

"You'll need it for tomorrow night," Nick continued, as he opened the door.

"What's tomorrow night?" Greg asked.

"The drink you owe me."

Greg offered a smile, waving as Nick got into the truck. The man stepped back and began towards his apartment, as Nick pulled out of the parking spot. Nick wasn't sure what he was doing, or what he was going to do, but he was pretty sure in Las Vegas that it was always hunting season, day or night, and Nick enjoyed hunting just as much as he enjoyed the catch.

--

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

Yeah, I thought it was going to be one chapter too. I was apparently wrong.

--

When Nick Stokes was a little boy, his mother had been making dinner on the stove one night as he watched, standing on tip toes to peer over the counter with curious eyes. The aroma of simmering food had been something he couldn't appreciate when he was young, all he knew was that it smelled delicious and he couldn't wait to eat it.

"Don't touch it, Nicky," she had warned, as she turned her back to rifle through one of the kitchen drawers. "You'll burn yourself."

Not five seconds had gone by before Nick was screaming. The same thing had happened with the toaster and the oven. And some twenty-odd years later, he still hadn't learned.

He conceded that it was Greg Sanders' fault, with that shit-talking mouth of his and that smug smile on his lips. Words edged with a combination of a sort of contempt and desire that Nick had never heard before. _You want me. You want me. You want me._ He heard it over and over again in his head. He wanted to shut the voice up like he did the first time, by pushing Greg up against the SUV, rough hands on his collar as he pressed his lips against the younger man's.

And, yes, he would be lying if he said he'd never fantasized about making that sarcastic, weird, cocky, loud-patterned-shirt-wearing, even-louder-music-listening, DNA-technitian-turned-CSI shut his mouth for two minutes -- or all night. But that's why it was a fantasy and he should've never touched the fire, because now it was burned into him, permanently.

Nick tried to remind himself that he liked women, petite women with perky breasts and heart-shaped asses and thin waists that he could almost wrap his large hands around. Women he could dominate and feel strong and manly with, women whose wrists he could encase in his hands, with blonde hair and smooth skin as he held him down, looking at those expressive brown eyes that could say so much and so little at the same time and -- okay. That thought process hadn't exactly gone as planned.

Well, so what, he liked Greg. It was a sexual desire, fueled by annoyance and curiosity, contempt and maybe even a little envy. A love-hate he could not explain, something he knew that was only a matter of time before he had to get it out of his system. The kiss hadn't even taken the edge off. In fact, it had only given him a taste of a drug he couldn't wait to get high off of again.

He sighed and turned onto his side frustrated with all of the thoughts racing through his head as he faced the windows. He hadn't closed the thick curtains before climbing into bed and the sun found his eyes. He contemplated getting up, but he knew it didn't matter. When he closed his eyes, what he would see was brighter and hotter and even less forgiving. So, instead, he prayed for either sleep or death. Both right now would've been sufficient.

Of course, the latter didn't come, but neither did the former. It was the longest few hours before work he had ever experienced, exacerbated by the fact that Nick had been unable to sleep for more than a half of an hour before waking again, glancing at the clock and dropping his head back onto the pillow with frustration. He just laid there, awake, thinking about that pink tongue running over his teeth and gums, those long fingers tracing up his back, lithe body against his, feeling his strength but Nick was stronger, and it made his heart race to think of overpowering the young man. He ached painfully, gave in and grasped himself between his legs and jerked off. But it wasn't enough. He didn't want to fantasize anymore. He didn't want his own hand anymore. He wanted Greg Sanders.

--

He found him at work that night, standing in front of a sheet that was hanging from the ceiling. It was riddled with blood and God-knew-what-else, and Greg was staring at it as if it was a priceless work of art, examining it with a furrowed brow and pursed lips. His arms were crossed over his chest, his legs hip-distance apart, and when that tongue darted over his lips, Nick couldn't just stand there and watch him anymore. He stepped into the room, startling Greg when he spoke.

"What is that?"

"God," he hissed, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "You scared the crap out of me."

"Sorry," Nick apologized, smiling in mild amusement as he stood beside him, close enough to feel the heat of Greg's body beside his, but not touching. Not yet.

Greg seemed unfazed by the proximity, focused on the sheet. "It's the bed sheet from my rape case. It just doesn't make sense. There are these two voids here in the blood, I just don't know how they got there. Was there something on the bed?"

"Yeah," Nick said, nodding, peering through glasses because he couldn't handle his contacts today. The concentration required to put them in had been too much for his unsteady hands. "Sara had a case similar to this a while ago. Turn around."

"Okay," the young man replied hesitantly, and Nick stood in front of him, trying to focus on the sheet but the heat emanating from Greg was making the hair on his arms stand on ends. He put his hands around Greg's slender wrists, bringing them up to either side of Greg's head. Electric fire shot from his hands to his spine, straight down to his groin. "What...?"

"Were her arms up like this when she was found? As if he held her down?"

"No," Greg said, his voice even as he brought them down to his sides. "They were here."

"She was choked to death," he stated, and Greg nodded. Nick brought his hands up to Greg's throat, feeling a rapid pulse against his fingers, the Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. "She was dead before he raped her, maybe?"

"Maybe," Greg replied, breathlessly. Nick brushed his thumb under Greg's chin, gently bending his head back, watching it elongate under his hands, wanting to put his lips on it, wanting to bite and nibble on it. He raised his lashes to see Greg watching him, peering down with almost black eyes.

"He killed her first," he said, applying pressure to that delicate neck, hearing Greg's breath catch. "When she was finally still, he had his hands on either side of her, his hands were where the voids are."

Almost reluctantly, he let go, putting his hands in position where the voids were. "See?"

"Yeah," Greg replied, but he was still staring at Nick. He cleared his throat, seeming sheepish as he stepped back. It pleased Nick to see Greg beside himself, for once in his life. "Thanks for your help."

"Anytime," he said, smiling disarmingly in that way he knew he could, and he was even more pleased when he saw Greg blush. "How do you feel?"

"What?"

"After last night," Nick replied, raising his eyebrows. "After all those drinks you had, you were pretty trashed. What, like, all three of them?"

"Ha," Greg retorted, crossing his arms again. "It was like...five."

"Oh, excuse me." Nick laughed, held his hands up in surrender. "Usually after that many I can't get out of bed in the morning, how did you manage to come in today?"

Greg narrowed his eyes, a tight smile on his lips. "Somehow."

"Ready to do it again tonight? I don't know if you remember, but you owe me a drink."

"I remember," Greg said, but nothing more. Nick furrowed his brow, stepping back further from the younger man. Greg seemed to sense his confusion and smiled, and this time Nick was the one disarmed. "How about the Hard Rock tonight?"

Nick smiled. "Sounds good."

--

Kissing again. Lips pressed hard against another set of lips, his body pressed hard against another body, hands around that delicate neck because Nick liked feeling strong and powerful over Greg. He tasted that fruity drink Greg had had at the bar while talking about the memorabilia on the wall but all Nick could concentrate on was the tongue moving inside of Greg's mouth when he spoke. He'd waited for this and here it was, pressed against the SUV again outside of Greg's apartment. Pushed Greg's chin up again with his thumb and this time he did kiss and bite and nibble on the soft skin. Greg's breath was rough and erratic, his hips pushing into Nick's, that erection pushing into Nick's thigh. That morning, and the next morning, and the morning afterwards. They ended up here after the restaurants and bars, same parking spot, same position, same fervent kissing and rubbing. It was thrilling and erotic and --

"Nick," he said, so quietly Nick almost didn't hear it. "Nick, please."

"Please, what?" he asked, and his heart raced faster at the idea of the answer.

"What are we doing?" he asked, giving Nick pause. He kept his hands on Greg's throat but looked up at him, his task set aside for now. "What do you want?"

"You said it a few days ago, didn't you?" Nick replied, the words rushing out. "You know what I want."

"Well, so far all we've done is make out until my mouth hurts," he stated, his hands dropping to his sides, and Nick let go of his neck. "I have stubble chafing. Three days now. Look."

"I see."

"It hurts."

"Yeah."

"When are you going to fuck me?" Greg asked, more blunt than Nick had expected. He had never fucked another man before, had never even kissed one before Greg. It was something he thought about, over and over, especially at night, but he had been satisfied with the kissing for the time being, pushing that other thing out of his head. If he had to be honest, he was scared. What if he wasn't any good at it? What if Greg wanted to do that to him? Oh, God, he couldn't -- "Nick, calm down."

He looked up in surprise, wondering how easily he could be read or if Greg was really just that perceptive. "I just, I don't know if I'm comfortable with that yet."

"Do you even want it to go there," Greg asked, almost offended, or is this just some kind of experiment you're getting a kick out of?"

"What?" Nick asked, taken aback, mostly because it was probably true. "What is this to _you_?"

"I don't know," Greg said, and there were those crossed arms again. "I kind of liked hanging out with you. I didn't really think you liked me."

"I didn't," he said, and immediately regretted the words the moment they escaped his mouth. The expression of hurt that was aimed in his direction was almost unbearable. "I mean, Greg, I liked working with you but -- "

"But you didn't like me," he shot, pushing Nick away from him forcefully. "I knew this was a mistake."

"What, you had this all planned out?" Nick asked, as Greg stepped onto the curb. He didn't like the lack of touch anymore, he just wanted to keep doing what they were doing before, the kissing and groping and --

"I liked you!" he admitted. "I mean, I really liked you. I thought you were this funny, cute, charming, smart guy. I guess I was wrong. Have a good night, Nick, see you at work tomorrow."

"Greg, wait," he pleaded, but he didn't follow him. He just watched him walk away and climbed the stairs to his apartment, the slamming of the door echoing in the complex. He winced, rolling his eyes at the sky as he walked around to the driver's side of his SUV. He sat inside, wishing he'd have followed Greg, but he couldn't. There was something unnerving about knowing the young man had had a crush on him. This had been purely sexual to Nick, something fun and naughty and experimental, and to Greg, this had been...what? Something serious?

"How do I get myself into this shit?" he asked himself out loud, as he turned over the engine, letting the cool air hit his face. He leaned against the steering wheel, hit his head against it and heard the car horn. Greg was sure wrong about him. He wasn't funny or cute or charming or smart. He was not funny and not cute and not charming and not smart. Definitely not smart.

He caught his eyes in the rearview mirror, wondering how he was going to deal with this later tonight when he saw Greg at work. He could apologize and take him out for a drink. Then they could go back to doing what they were doing before he so stupidly opened his mouth.

Man, he was so _not_ smart. So not smart.

--

To be continued.


	3. Chapter 3

I know I should probably pace myself and build up some suspense or something, but I just write as it comes to me and post when I'm satisfied enough with it. Anyway, I hope you enjoy.

--

The hours before Nick's shift were a premonition of the rest of Nick's night. The air was pregnant with it, so thick he could hardly draw in a full breath. It left a bad taste in his mouth and an even worse feeling in his stomach.

It all started when the alarm went off. Well it may have started before that, but Nick couldn't be sure, since he had -- briefly, thankfully, finally -- been sleeping. His feet hit the floor as he stepped out of bed, but instead of finding plush, beige carpet, they hit something cold and sharp.

"Fuck!" he shouted, lifting his foot as fast as possible. It was too late, blood hit the floor in dark red drops, and when he saw the culprit he cursed again, but this time at himself. Last night's late snack, half-eaten and still lying by the bed, fork covered in blood. Let it go. Move on, it's just a cut. A tiny, throbbing, mean cut.

"Let it go."

Bathroom. Just get to the bathroom. He hopped clumsily across the room, grabbing his toothbrush and shoving it into his mouth, taking the toothpaste and opening the cap. Squeezing the tube and...

"Fuck!" When had he run out? Whatever, whatever. Let it go, let it go. He'd brush his teeth when he got to work. Greg always had spare toothpaste in his locker. Nick had used it before, halfway through a long shift while thanking God that Greg was such a clean-freak.

Oh, yeah, he remembered. He was sure asking Greg for anything right now would go over well.

Don't think about that. Don't think about Greg. Just think about the nice hot shower that's waiting.

The shower _was_ nice and the water was definitely hot. It felt wonderful against his aching muscles. The lack of sleep he'd been having over the past few days was starting to weigh his body down physically now, but at least he could have this slight bit of reprieve. He began to soap up his body and hair when he felt a shock of ice hit his body.

No. No, no, no, no -- "No!"

Why was this happening to him, he asked, looking up at the Heavens. Why? What had he done to deserve this? What had he honestly done to --

As if to mock him for asking a question so dumb, the water stopped. Just like that, it just...stopped. He pulled his lips into his mouth and bit down, nodding. Okay. Okay, he got it. He was a jerk and God didn't like ugly and he got it. Now could he please just have his hot water back?

Not even a drop came from the shower-head. He supposed he got his answer.

--

Nick entered the doors of the crime lab feeling sticky and gross despite the fact that he was covered in soap from this evening's failed shower. He'd used a bottle of water he'd had left in the fridge to rinse off as best he could. What was worse was the bottle of gatorade he'd had to use brush his teeth with. He was fairly positive that orange and mint were the most awful combination known to man.

He was relieved when the moment he walked in, Catherine was shoving a case file into his hands. She had worked the swing shift that day and was eager to get the Hell out of here, and Nick was just as eager to work a scene and avoid Greg Sanders for a few hours, possibly all night if he played his cards right.

"So what is this about?" he asked, moving to the side of the hall to allow others to pass. He eyed the address and frowned. "This is a nice part of town. Kind of out of the way, though."

"Ecklie wants us on the case," she replied. "The father is a judge. He's missing and the daughter and wife are dead. They were stabbed to death in the middle of the night. Grissom's already there, the bodies are being processed now. By the time you get there, all you'll need to do is work the scene."

"You got it," he said, ready to grab his gear and run before --

"Hey, Sanders!" she called, and Nick sucked in a deep breath through his teeth, trying to remain impassive, but Catherine saw his face, ever perceptive, and it showed on her own.

"What's up?" Greg's voice, as he approached them. If only the young man had been just five minutes late, but of course the kiss-ass never was. God forbid. He stood next to Nick but didn't regard him whatsoever, crossing his arms over his chest and standing at least two feet away from him.

Catherine looked at the two of them for one second too long, her eyes narrowed. "Uh...I have a scene I need you to process. You can ride in with Nick." She paused, waiting for a response, but there was none from either man. "Okay?"

"I have a lot of work to catch up on," Greg blurted out, too fast. One hand was on the nape of his neck, eyes downcast. Nick fought the urge to roll his eyes. The junior CSI would never pass up the chance to get out onto the field after working so hard to get there. Not only that, but he was a terrible liar. "Are you sure you can't get someone else to go?"

"No," Catherine said firmly, her expression showing her exasperation. "Bye."

She left as abruptly as her farewell, leaving Nick and Greg standing alone in the hall. Older man glanced at the younger, whose jaw was set as he stared at the empty space Catherine had occupied only moments earlier.

"I'll get my gear and -- "

"Whatever," Greg interrupted, still not meeting Nick's gaze. "See you at the car."

Nick looked up once more at the Heavens as Greg walked away, but this time, he didn't ask dumb questions. Instead, he expelled stale air from his lungs, trying to keep his cool. Great. A forty-five minute drive to the outskirts of Vegas was going to be fun. He could feel it.

--

Nick had always thought the phrase "the silence was deafening" was pretty lame. Since spending time in a tiny glass box six feet underground, he realized that that phrase made sense in certain situations. For example: spending twenty minutes of complete silence on the way to a crime scene with one Greg Sanders. Perfect fit. And if that wasn't enough, Greg was fidgeting like a five-year-old. Nick had always had a hard time believing that Greg could sit still, and now he had been proven right.

As if reading Nick's thoughts, which Nick could swear Greg could actually do sometimes, Greg looked at the radio. "Don't you listen to music while you drive?"

"Yes," Nick replied slowly, watching Greg in his peripheral. The young man didn't hesitate before flicking on the radio with almost a flourish. His fingers constantly moved over the buttons, pulling a face as he heard almost nothing but country in the pre-set channels. "Don't do that."

"Do what?" he asked, almost defiant.

"Mess with a man's radio."

The message went unheeded as Greg settled on a rock station, something indie playing that Nick wasn't familiar with. Greg sat back in his seat, satisfied for the time being as a mellow song drifted from the speakers, a female's breathy voice floating through the air and surrounding them. It was surprising, but Nick...actually...kind of...liked it.

_"From that cloud, number nine..._

_Danger starts the sharp incline..._

_And such sad regrets..._

_Oh, as those starry skies..._

_As they swiftly fall, make no mistake..._

_You shan't escape..._

_Tethered and tied, there's nowhere to hide...from me..._

_All mine...you have to be..."_

"Who is this?" Nick asked, intrigued. Was there really something else besides country and classic rock music?

"Portishead," Greg replied, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Didn't know what real music sounded like, huh?"

"Whatever, man," he said with a smirk, allowing the station to play through until the end of their drive, and the silence was almost comfortable. Almost. When they arrived at the crime scene, Nick flashed his badge at the police and drove to the front of the house. He parked the SUV at the curb behind Grissom's, his eyes traveling over the flashing lights, red and blue flowing over the neighboring houses like waves. Greg's hand was grabbing the car door when Nick put a hand on his arm, feeling the same heat he felt when he would push him up against the SUV. "Greg, listen," he began, but when Greg's eyes met his, he lost all words.

"What?" Greg asked, but Nick's vocabulary had shrunk in significant size as he wondered what Greg saw through those large brown eyes. He wondered if he was even handsome anymore to the younger man, or if the ugly inside of Nick was now reflected on the outside.

Breaking Nick's contemplation, Greg pulled his arm out of his grasp, narrowing his eyes. "That's what I thought," he said quietly, but his words were edged with anger. He stepped out of the car, and Nick could swear he heard him call him a jerk, but maybe it was the voice inside of Nick's head. He sighed, stepping out of the car himself and grabbing up his gear before heading up the front path to the house into the open door.

It was a large house and still dark, dimly lit as it had been when first entered by the police. They always left everything as they'd found it, even the lights, because they liked to see it as the killer saw it. Flashlights helped focus on small areas at a time, assuring that nothing was missed. Several eyes in one area, several points of view, several ways to see the same scene. It was clockwork, it was precise, it was the way they felt best to catch a murderer, and hopefully it would this time too.

"Hey, Nick," he heard, and didn't have to look up to know it was his boss. "You guys made good time. The bodies were just sent to the morgue. I'm going to hang around a little longer to help process the scene. It's a big house."

"Thanks, Gris," he said, his flashlight landing on the stairs, climbing up. "Where were they found?"

"The mother was found in bed," he replied. "She was shot. So was the daughter, in the hall. I think Mom was asleep, and the daughter came out of her room when the gunshot woke her."

"Any sign of a break in?" Nick asked, his brow furrowed.

"No. The doors were locked when the police came," he stated, indicating the busted frame of the entrance. "One of the neighbors heard the shots and called the police."

"Any sign of Dad?"

"No, either," was the reply he received. "I'm going to finish the kitchen."

"I'll head upstairs."

He made his way into the bedroom, finding a pool of blood on the bed and on the floor. He could almost imagine the gun, hear the blast and see the flash of bright light as it fired. She screamed and scrambled from the bed to find something, anything, to help her, but it was too late. She hit the floor and her breath was escaping her as blood filled her lungs, and her screams became quieter and quieter until she drowned, until she was still. He blinked as he focused on the floor again, her image vanishing before him as quickly as it had appeared.

Later. It was going to take a lot of work to get through the murder scene, and he needed something simpler first. So instead, he stepped into the large bathroom, his eyes traveling over the countertop. Make up, hairspray, perfume. On the other side, next to the other sink: hair products, cologne, deodorant. Perfect his and hers.

He caught another flashlight heading his way in the large mirror in front of him. Greg walked in slowly and carefully, his eyes meeting Nick's in the mirror for only a brief second before they cast back to the ground, up the wall and to an abstract wooden figure hanging there. Nick watched him as he pretended to examine the sink, watched as Greg's brow furrowed and his lips pouted in the way they did when he was puzzled.

"What _is_ that?" Greg asked, and Nick knew he couldn't help it because he was pretty sure Greg didn't want to talk to him right now. "I mean, it kind of looks like a person, but maybe it's a..." Another pout. "A frog? Is that a frog?"

"The scene, Greg," Nick reminded him, smiling, and maybe if he, himself, had been paying attention to it, he would've seen it coming. There was a movement in the mirror, from the double closet doors behind him and beside Greg. Subtle, but there, and by the time Nick noticed it was too late.

They exploded outwards, one door clattering against the wall loudly, the other hitting Greg in his shoulder. He cried out, half in surprise and half in pain, turning his body towards the blow but he shouldn't have. Nick reached for his gun with one hand, reaching out for Greg with the other, but the man that had been hiding in the closet reached him first. Grabbed his vest with one hand, pulling him close, spinning him around at rapid speed, and Nick couldn't seem to move in anything except slow motion. The man pulled Greg close, Greg's back to his chest, wrapped an arm around his neck and pressed the gun to his temple. Brown eyes focused on Nick, filled with a sort of fear he'd never seen before, and almost immediately Nick lowered his gun, not knowing what else to do. Greg's breath was hard and erratic, audible in short quick bursts.

"What are you doing in my house?" the man asked, his eyes shifting, and Nick wondered if he was able to focus. There was a wound on the right side of his head, blood sticking in his hair and to his shirt. Blood on his hands and on the gun pointing to Greg's head. "I asked you a question!"

"Judge Walker, we're from the crime lab," he stated, as calmly as he could as he recognized the public official. He was trying not to look at Greg, into those eyes, but it was hard not to. They were pleading with him, begging him to do anything to stop this. He was trying, Greg. He was trying. "I'm Nick Stokes and this is Greg Sanders. We're investigating your family's deaths."

"Deaths?" he asked, and Nick realized it might not have been the right thing to say at this moment in time. "What are you talking about? Where is my family!"

"Just put down the gun and we can talk about what happened," Nick said, and to his right he could see officers approaching, guns drawn. "Just put the gun down, Greg is here to help too."

"Who are these people?" he asked, stepping back, pulling Greg with him. "What are you doing in my house?"

"Sir, my name is Gil Grissom," said his boss from the entry to the bathroom. "You're holding one of my men hostage when we're only trying to help figure out what's going on, just like you are. Can you please let him go so we can talk?"

"Get out of my house," he demanded, quietly. Suddenly, he pulled the gun away from Greg's head and aimed at the floor, pulling the trigger and blasting a hole into the tile, shattering ceramic into the air in a loud burst. Greg's gasp was audible, a choked sob following. "Do you think I'm joking? I said get out of my house!"

Nick jumped back, his heart jumping into his throat at the same time. He watched Walker push the gun into Greg's hair once more, watched Greg wince as the hot muzzle touched his scalp. He could see Greg's lips move for a moment but there were no words, just eyes wild with terror and wet with hot tears threatening to fall.

"Judge Walker, you're hurt," Grissom continued, indicating the man's head. "You're confused and you aren't thinking straight. You wouldn't hurt an innocent man, would you? Greg's innocent. He's innocent."

"No," he replied slowly. "No, I wouldn't."

And then he was lowering his gun, letting up on his grip on Greg, enough for Greg to scramble towards Nick. Quickly, swiftly, police officers were flanking Walker, turning him around and pushing him up against the wall, cuffing him and pulling him down the hall. He heard Grissom shouting, asking why the place had been cleared when there was a man hiding in one of the closets with a handgun, the same man that had just held that same handgun to his CSI's head. Nick looked at Greg, his hands gripping the sink as he panted, eyes closed. He opened them and closed them again, pressing the back of a gloved hand against his mouth.

"Greg, get some air," Grissom ordered softly, his eyes just as soft as he watched Greg carefully. The young man nodded, taking in a shaky breath before heading down the stairs. "Nick, go with him."

"Yeah," he said simply, and then made his way outside of the house as quickly as he could without damaging the scene. He stepped into the night, looking to the left and then the right before catching Greg leaning against a tree across the street. He was touching his head, his face contorted in pain as he carefully smoothed down his hair over the wound. "Hey, Greggo."

"What?" was the terse reply he received. He stepped away from the tree, his hands in his vest pockets, but Nick saw the tremble in them before he could hide it.

"You're okay, man," he stated, and felt like he was not only telling Greg but also himself. He reached out to touch him, but Greg pulled away before he could lay a comforting hand on him. "It's all right, Greg."

"Shut up," he snapped, an obvious anger on his face. He paced, back and forth on the sidewalk. "I know I'm all right. There isn't a hole in my head, okay? I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" Nick asked this time. "I can take you back, Grissom can -- "

"I said I'm fine!" he exclaimed, one of his trembling hands making an appearance to rub his eyes. "What do you care anyway? You don't like me, remember?"

Nick opened his mouth but the question surprised him to a degree that he couldn't find an answer for a moment. "Greg, I didn't mean it like that."

"You just meant that you don't like me," he stated, eyes glaring. Nick noticed the fear had not left them, rather anger had just been added to them. If he could focus on Nick's dislike of him, then he didn't have to think about the gun pressed to his head. "You think you're better than me because you were some great Texas jock that was popular _and_ smart. Don't mess with Texas, right? Well, fuck Texas, and fuck you too!"

Nick pressed his fingers into his eyes for a moment, trying to keep track of Greg's train of thought, trying to remember that Greg was upset and momentarily traumatized.

"Greg, calm down," he said slowly, but he heard the exasperation in his own voice. He was sure Greg heard it too."

"Calm down? You want me to calm down?" Greg asked, grasping the wrought iron gate surrounding the neighbor's yard with both hands. "You tried to get me killed! Go ahead and tell some guy with a gun to my head that his whole family is dead, you jerk! You're a jerk!"

"I'm sorry, Greg, I didn't know what else to say!" he exclaimed, remembering the childlike fear in Greg's eyes, remembering the lame words spilling from his mouth clumsily. "I wasn't trying to get you killed. Greg, I know I told you I didn't like you but I didn't know you. The past few nights of hanging out with you, I really...I really liked them."

"Do you mean that?" he asked, quietly, and Nick felt almost sad that he had hurt Greg in such a way.

"Of course I mean it," he said. "If something happened to you just now I would've never been able to live with myself for treating you how I did."

"So that's what this is?" Greg asked, sneering at him. "You're just trying to get some kind of absolution? Well, forget it. You're not going to get it from me. The world doesn't revolve around you, Nick."

"Oh, go get off," Nick spat. "I've had enough of this snotty attitude from you. The world might not revolve around me, but it doesn't revolve around you either. I'm trying to apologize. I'm trying to tell you that if something had happened to you I would've regretted not giving you another chance. I really...I really like you."

Greg shot him a look that told Nick he wasn't exactly buying it.

"I mean it, Greg," he pleaded. "You're...are you really going to make me say it?"

"Yes," he answered, almost before Nick finished his sentence.

"You're interesting, okay? You're smart and you're weird and you're fun and you have so much to say and I can't stop listening because everything you say and do is _interesting_. It makes me nervous and it makes me jealous and it keeps me guessing and I like it. I like _you_."

There. He said it. And he waited. And waited. Watched Greg's tongue slide over his teeth, watched him bite his bottom lip, and Nick wanted to bite it too. Greg looked at him, eyes searching. "I don't have to work tomorrow."

And, while the admission was confusing, Nick said, "Neither do I."

"I know." Greg lowered his eyes, looked back up. The fear was replaced by something new, still fear but different. "Do you wanna...have another drink?"

"How about dinner?" Nick asked, touching Greg's arm and this time Greg let him. "My place, about eight o'clock tomorrow? I'll cook for you."

"Yeah," Greg said, a new emotion flooding his eyes, but this time Nick couldn't recognize it. "Sounds good. What should I bring?"

Nick paused for a moment, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Dessert."

--

To be continued.


	4. Chapter 4

Usually, on Nick's days off, he would sleep as late as possible, waking up sometimes close to midnight. He'd roll around in the bed sheets, stretching out, catching up on whatever he'd recorded on his DVR while drinking beer, and maybe even catching up on some of the newer erotic videos on his laptop. It really was, quite honestly, what he considered Heaven to be like. Except, instead of having to get up and answer the door when the food arrived, an angel would deliver it directly to his bed. He also hoped that in Heaven, he'd never have to get up to go to the bathroom because people didn't do that up there.

However, on this day, he'd set his alarm at the God-awful hour of six o'clock in the evening. It was the equivalent of waking up at four in the morning if you had a nine-to-five day job. And while Nick did try to live like a normal human being on his days off, and normal human beings had a real dinner at eight p.m., the proverbial jet-lag that came with it really sucked.

Thank God he had planned ahead and went to the store on his way home this morning. He'd only realized when he'd gotten there that he'd had no idea what the fuck to make for dinner. He liked to think of himself as a skilled cook, loved looking up recipes on the internet and trying new things. Going out to eat was expensive, and when you relied on government pay, that wasn't always the most responsible thing to do. And while he did occasionally enjoy taking himself out to dinner, there was something awkward about asking Greg to join him. That seemed so much like a...well, like a date. And he wasn't sure if he wanted to go there. Dinner at home seemed more comfortable for right now.

After circling the aisles with mostly the snow birds -- a term used to describe the retired that lived here in the winter and went back north for the summer -- he mused that sometime today he should decide what to cook, since he was incredibly tired from a long night at the Walker residence followed by a long night at the crime lab. And, surrounded by the elderly at this time of the morning, it was starting to make _him_ feel old, and he felt it in every bone in his aching body.

Eventually, he'd decided on steak. There was a dark beer/brown sugar marinade that he loved to use, and along with some mashed potatoes and asparagus, he was sure he couldn't go wrong. He briefly worried that Greg might not like it, but pushed that thought aside. If he knew better, which he did -- he definitely knew better -- he would think there were butterflies in his stomach. Drunk, violent, spiteful butterflies with a grudge against Nick's insides.

Anyway, he woke up at six o'clock, showered, shaved, dressed. Dressed again. And again. And as he looked in his closet, he realized with disdain that everything he owned was black. Greg was always wearing some kind of crazy pattern in a loud color, how could Nick sit across the dinner table wearing something as boring as _black_?

He raked his fingers through his hair. What was _wrong_ with him? He was acting like some kid, acting like he was back in Texas and getting ready for his first date with the captain of the cheerleading team back at A&M. Whatever, just pick a shirt, man!

Black it was. A fitted tee shirt and jeans. As per usual. He stepped into the kitchen at about seven o'clock, pulling his marinading steaks and asparagus out of the fridge, grabbing the potatoes off the counter, and went to work. He just hoped that Greg wouldn't be late. If Nick timed this perfectly, Greg would be arriving in the door just as he was plating the food.

At seven-thirty the doorbell rang. There went his timing. The potatoes were just beginning to boil and the steaks were only just hitting the cast-iron grill on the stove, nothing was ready for plating...but he couldn't help but put a hand to his stomach, trying to calm those drunk-ass butterflies.

He stepped to the door, glancing through the peephole and seeing Greg standing there, looking off to the left. He admired the straight nose, the soft jaw line, watched as Greg fidgeted impatiently, smoothing down his hair with both hands. Nick noticed the stripes on his sleeves as he did so, saw the different hues of blue and orange beneath a brown, corduroy blazer, nodded as he thought he couldn't have guessed better. As if sensing Nick there, he looked up and squinted, a mock-glare on his face.

"Let me in!" he called from the breezeway. "I can feel you looking at me. I come from a clairvoyant family, remember? Or maybe it's because the peephole got dark."

Nick couldn't help but smile as he stepped back to unlock the door. So that's how Greg could read him like a book, he silently considered with amusement. He pulled open the door, keeping his smile as he stepped aside to let the younger man pass. Couldn't help but travel the slender-fitting jeans from waist to toe with his eyes. "What's up, Greggo. You know you're early, right? Dinner's not ready yet."

"I know. I got up early to get ready, and then I got bored," he replied, holding out a bottle of wine like a waiter presenting it to his table. "Pino grisio. I wasn't sure what we were having, but I thought bringing beer would be too Superbowl. And I don't like red wine. Hence: pino."

"Ain't nothing wrong with that," Nick replied, stepping back into the kitchen to check on his food. Greg followed close behind, nearly bumping into him as he stopped at the stove. He could hear Greg inhaling through his nostrils.

"That smells awesome," the junior CSI stated, standing entirely too close. He was aware of that heat again, could smell the sharp cologne, almost feel the curves of Greg's body against his back. Almost. "I always figured you for a steak and potatoes kind of guy."

"Oh, yeah?" Nick asked, grabbing a wine key from the drawer, needing to step away from the tall man next to him, knowing if he didn't the steaks would burn endlessly on the stove. "Why's that?"

"You look like a meathead," was the reply he received, and he cocked an eyebrow at Greg's flash of white teeth. The young man took the wine key from Nick's hand with slender fingers, the shock of the touch causing Nick's breath to catch. Greg looked up at him from under dark eyelashes, his smile transforming into a knowing grin. "Thanks."

"No, thank you," Nick said, remembering his basic grammar. He continued, rather lamely, "And I'm not a meathead."

"Joke!" Greg exclaimed, opening the bottle in a way that indicated this definitely wasn't his first time. He looked up again. "I was a server in New York. Knew a guy who knew a guy, started as a busser and worked my way up. You wouldn't believe how much cash I made in mid-town."

"All your smarts and you were a server?" Nick asked, brow knitted as he dumped the potatoes into a strainer in the sink. He returned them to the pot, allowing the remaining water to evaporate. Had he ever known Greg lived in New York?

"Hey, man," he said, popping the cork with a grunt. "Aside from being incredibly attractive, you've gotta be smart to be a server. On your game and able to balance seven four-tops at one time."

"Four-tops?" Nick asked, puzzled.

"Restaurant lingo," he stated. "Four people. If there's two, it's a two-top. One, one-top. Et-cetera. Do you have any wine glasses?"

"No. Us meatheads only drink beer. Usually out of the can. Bottles are above me."

Greg's laugh was melodious as he opened the cabinets with abandon until he found a rock glass with an American flag on it. "Oh, my God, you are from Texas."

"Shut up," Nick shot, mashing potatoes with a fork. "It was a Christmas present from my mom. Now get out of my kitchen. Go in the living room and watch some TV or something. You're messing up my mojo."

"Yes, sir." Greg poured a copious amount of wine into his glass before returning to the stove for one last whiff. This time, his body did touch Nick's, so lightly the older man almost wasn't sure if it was wishful thinking. But then he felt a hand on his waist, searing him. "Looks as good as it smells."

Static from the stereo in the living room startled him back to the present, and he realized that Greg was gone. The touch had left him frozen, oblivious to his surroundings for a fraction of a second. He blinked hard as he went to the refrigerator for milk and butter, trying to compose himself as he heard radio station after radio station. Whatever Greg was in the mood for, he wasn't finding it.

"Can I plug in my iPod?" he called from the living room. "There's no good music on."

"Go for it."

Nick stepped away from the steaks for a minute and into the living room, knowing they had a few more minutes before they were finished. The asparagus was boiling, the potatoes were staying warm in the pot, he could take a minute to watch Greg stand in front of the bay window, looking out over the street. He stood with one hand casually in his jeans' pocket, the other wrapped around the rock glass. The setting sun hit his face, the deep glow of purple and pink settling on his skin, making him look radiant. Nick could almost see the music floating around him in the air. It started simple and then exploded in crescendo, the passion in the singer's voice as captivating as the sight in front of him.

_"Edison would spin in his grave..._

_To ever see the light that you gave..._

_Don't want to take it nice and slow here..._

_Don't want to waste a minute more, dear..._

_The universe just vanished out of sight..._

_And all the stars collapsed behind the pitch black night..._

_And I can barely see your face in front of mine..._

_But it is knowing you are there that makes me fine..."_

"Snow Patrol," Greg said suddenly, and Nick hadn't realized his presence had been known. "If you were going to ask who this was."

He turned slowly to look at Nick, smiled. Kept looking, and Nick opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out. It hit him, all at once, that he didn't know what he was doing tonight. Dinner had seemed like a good idea but now Nick had not only lost all words but also his mind. What was he doing? Was he trying to court the young man watching him from across the room? Certainly he didn't need to seduce him. It had been obvious from their first night of drinking that Greg wanted him, and wasn't afraid to show it. So what, exactly, was the purpose of all this? Why had Nick invited him over? And why had Greg come?

He meant to ask, but instead, "How do you like your steak?" came out.

Greg's smile was gone but the amusement was shining in his eyes. "Medium rare, please."

"Good," he said simply, and then walked back into the kitchen. He needed a beer. Two had already been consumed before Greg had even gotten here, but Nick could handle his liquor. Two wasn't even enough to have a buzz. He pulled another one out of the fridge, twisting off the bottle-cap and tossing it into the trash almost violently. The precipice he had been standing on was starting to shake, was going to force him over the edge, and he didn't like it. Was Greg freaking out on the inside too? Somehow, he'd bet not. It annoyed him to think that he could be so anxious and Greg could take this all in stride, just like everything else. To just stand there so casually with his hand in his pocket, silent and stoic and so in control, while Nick was losing his mind in the kitchen.

"Are you okay?" Greg, from the doorway. Nick took a deep breath and turned to pull out two plates from the cabinet, trying to regain his composure.

"Yeah, just getting ready to plate up," Nick replied, busying himself with the task. "Do you need some more wine before we sit?"

"Yeah," he said, opening the refrigerator and pulling out the bottle. Make yourself at home, Nick thought, realizing then that Greg had not made haste in becoming comfortable in Nick's apartment. "You seem a little anxious." Hands on his shoulders, startling him. How could Greg do that? Not be there one moment, and the next he was kneading fingertips into Nick's muscles. Nick started, trying to relax...it did feel pretty nice. "Anything I can do to help?"

"That right there," he said, closing his eyes, leaning into the pressure on his shoulders. He felt Greg against him, felt Greg's lips on his neck, felt teeth scrape against his skin, smelled wine and cologne and it was making him crazy with desire. He wanted to subdue him and push him into the bed and show him that Nick _was_ in control and Greg is the one who should be anxious. Nick felt a heat in his gut that he had to get a hold of before dinner got cold. It took most of his energy, but he managed to pull away, grabbing two hot plates and handing one to Greg. "Table. Sit. Now."

"Sure thing, Tarzan," Greg said, grinning madly, looking rather pleased with himself for ruffling Nick's feathers, and once again Nick had to use all of his energy not to wipe the smile from his face.

Oh, God, this was going to be a long night.

--

"I swear to God, Nick," Greg was saying, flashing those white teeth as he lazily held the glass of wine in his hand, elbow jutting up from the table. He was leaning forward, telling his story with such exuberance that Nick wondered why he hadn't liked listening to Greg's stories before. "Warrick looked up from the microscope and he had the little raccoon eyes. It took everything in my body not to laugh, when he left the lab -- "

"Wait a second," Nick interrupted, leaning back in his seat, legs splayed, acutely aware of one of Greg's leaning against one of his own. "You let Warrick leave the lab with ink circles around his eyes?"

"Yes!" Greg said, and held up a finger. "And nobody said anything to him for an _hour and a half_. I walked in on him washing off his face in the bathroom an hour and a half later, Nick."

"I hope you ran in the other direction," Nick offered, smirking.

"Please, I ain't scared," he said. "Just because I got the crap beat out of me once doesn't mean I can't fight. Ten against one, come on. All I need is the chance."

He mocked throwing punches like a boxer, and Nick was smiling even though he was wondering how Greg could talk about something like that so casually. Greg had been laid up in the hospital for days, a broken leg and arm, his face purple and puffy -- fuck, even some of his hair had been torn out -- and yet here he was, as if it had just been some kind of mild scuffle. It was like Nick likening his live burial to a few hours of alone time.

"Doesn't it..." Nick began, but wasn't sure if this was something he wanted to get into. Fuck it. "Doesn't it bother you? What happened to you?"

"Yes," he answered, and Nick wasn't expecting him to be so blunt. Greg shrugged, taking a sip of wine. "Sometimes I still freak out a little when I'm walking alone and hear somebody behind me. But I can't live in fear that it's going to happen again. The chances of it happening the first time were slim, if it happened again I think I'd play the lottery. Unless I was dead, of course. I'd better write down the numbers I want and keep them in my wallet."

"Greg." But he couldn't say anything else. He looked down, fingering his napkin. "Do you ever...dream about it...still?"

When he looked up again, he could see the soft smile on his companion's lips, the look of genuine compassion in his eyes. "Of course I do. Sometimes it's blurry, but sometimes it's so clear I wake up and it takes me a minute to realize I'm not there. But I'm not there, you know? I'm alive and they're in jail and that's that. I'm sure Mr. Piggy wishes he'd never passed the likes of me. The beating he's getting in jail is probably a lot worse than the one I got."

Nick's breath exploded from him, feeling relieved that even though it had been years since his kidnapping, it was okay for him to still be damaged. It was _normal_, and Nick hadn't felt normal for the first time in a long time.

"Thanks," he said to Greg, and he knew he didn't have to say anything more.

Greg nodded in recognition, and in moments his expression changed and there was a hint of mischief in his eyes. "So...I know what you like about me, but what is it that you don't like?"

Nick narrowed his eyes, smiling and holding up a hand in defense. "I don't think I want to play this game. It sounds like a trap."

"No, come on," Greg pleaded, putting his glass on the table and getting up to get more wine. Thankfully, he seemed to be able to hold his wine better than his liquor, although if Nick could guess by his more frequent giddiness, the man's inhibitions were definitely in question. "You said you got to know me a little and now you do like me, right? So what was it about me that put you off." He stepped back into the living room, but stood behind his chair instead of sitting in it. "Seriously. Maybe it'll help me make more friends if I know what it is about me that people don't like. Want to sit on the couch?"

"Yeah," Nick said, pushing his chair out and abandoning the empty plates and utensils. He grabbed his bottle of beer and sat down heavily into the leather, Greg joining him, sitting impossibly close. Their thighs were touching, Greg's hand was on Nick's leg, and he had to fight from shifting uncomfortably. It wasn't that he didn't _like_ Greg touching him, it was just that he had a lot harder of a time forming sentences and thinking cognitively when he did.

"So...?"

"Greg, I don't think this is a good idea."

"I promise I won't get mad!"

Nick pursed his lips, sighed. Saw those persistent eyes and knew that this wasn't something Greg was going to give up on. He tried to find the words -- the right words, the ones that weren't going to make Greg think Nick was a jerk. "You're..."

"I'm...?"

"I'm getting there," he continued, peeling the label of the beer off of the glass. "You talk too much."

"But I thought everything I say is interesting," Greg interjected, pouting.

"I know, that's what's annoying about it," he stated, shrugging. "You talk and everybody listens to you. They hang on to your every word because you're so smart and you know what you're talking about, and you do it in this cute way that makes everybody like you even when you drive them crazy. Look at Catherine and Sara, they would do anything to protect you."

Greg smiled. "I am smart."

"I know you are," Nick said, and took another swig of beer. "You use big words that I don't even know what they mean sometimes, and that study you're doing on the effect of DNA and some kind of binding thing -- ?"

"The effect of DNA modifications on DNA processing by HIV-1 integrase and inhibitor binding," Greg clarified. "It's actually about the role of DNA backbone flexibility and an open catalytic site. Grissom's going to sponsor me, he's really impressed with my -- "

"Whatever, man," Nick said, bristling. "That's what I mean. Even when you say it it sounds interesting. You're too smart and you talk too much and you never stop moving and sometimes it makes me want to shut your mouth and keep you still."

He didn't actually mean to say it exactly like that, and he was afraid he'd really offended Greg, but when he looked at him he could see that coy smile on his face. Greg picked at the inseam on Nick's thigh, his fingertips just inches away from Nick's cock. That pink tongue sliding across his lips and then he said, "And how exactly would you do that?"

Nick didn't have to respond verbally. Instead, he leaned towards Greg, took a fistful of hair and kissed his mouth hard. Images of kissing pressed up against the SUV flashed through his mind as he pressed Greg up against the seat of the couch, feeling Greg's body against his own, feeling every inch of it beneath his. He pressed his hips into that slender waist, felt Greg's leg hooking around his, felt hands on his back, pulling him closer. He pushed his tongue into that mouth that never stopped talking, and even when they were kissing the young man was still vocal, moaning into his mouth and driving Nick mad.

Nick pushed his hands under Greg's shirt, the blazer had been abandoned a long time ago, sitting somewhere in the apartment. Felt smooth skin, wanted to see it. He fumbled clumsily at the buttons as fast as he could, pushed aside the fabric to see fair skin. His mouth moved from Greg's to the man's throat, to his neck, to his collarbone. He had never explored another man's body, and was excited to see what he would find. Greg's hands slipped up his shirt, pulling, tugging, and Nick sat up long enough to allow it to be pulled over his head. He caught Greg's expression, saw the pure lust in his eyes and felt a rush through his blood.

"You're hot," Greg muttered as his hands moved up the ridges of Nick's chest, the corners of his mouth tugging into a smile, and Nick could help but blush. Greg's smile widened. "And cute."

"Greg," he stammered suddenly, remembering himself. "I've never done this before. With a man, I mean."

"I figured that's what you meant," Greg replied, amused. His hands were traveling down Nick's shoulders, down his arms, slender fingers grasping around Nick's wrists, on either side of Greg's head. "You've done this with a woman right? Give it to her in the back door?"

And now it was Nick's turn to be amused. Only Greg would say something like that at a time like this. "Yes."

"Then you already know what you're doing."

Nick felt the confidence glow within himself, bursting into a hot flame that could challenge the sun and put it to shame. He leaned down and pressed his lips against Greg's once more, and this time Greg was the one to push his tongue into Nick's mouth. Felt hands in his hair, felt them on his arms, his back, his shoulders, Greg was everywhere at once and if Nick hadn't been sure that he wanted to do this before, he was pretty sure now.

"So tell me something, Greggo," he murmured into Greg's ear, hearing Greg sigh beneath him, feeling Greg struggle to get closer. It thrilled him to be back in control, to know that Greg had lost it between them and in himself. "You can sense the future right?"

"Yeah," was the breathy reply he received, followed by a sharp intake of air as Nick pressed his thigh into Greg's erection.

"So what's going to happen?" he asked. "Tell me my future."

"You're going to sleep tonight," he said, and Nick paused. He pulled back a little, looking into Greg's eyes, and for a moment he was startled by the true perceptiveness of the man beneath him. He had never mentioned his insomnia over the past few days to anyone. "But not before you show me how much you really do like me."

The young man slithered out from beneath Nick, standing up to push down his jeans. He stood there in the living room in his boxer-briefs, tight against his skin, all but showing Nick everything. God, those legs seemed miles long. He watched Greg move to the hallway, watched him turn and look back with dark eyes. "Are you coming? Or am I going to have to do this by myself?"

"No," Nick replied hastily, getting up from the couch, grinning as Greg raced down the hall and into Nick's bedroom. He crossed the threshold and it was like he was walking into somebody else's life. He saw Greg on the bed, laid back, propped up on elbows, those long legs splayed, his underwear abandoned on the floor, and Nick had never felt before that he could want another man like he wanted the one before him right now.

"I didn't think you could be so sexy," he blurted out, and when the words left his mouth, he realized how corny they sounded. But he meant it. Greg just smiled, almost lazily, the small night light glowing softly in the corner of the room, illuminating just enough. He crossed the room to the man on his bed, pushing down his own jeans and underwear and allowing them to slide to the floor. He knelt on the bed, his knees between Greg's legs, leaned back until he pressed his lips against Greg's once more.

"Nicky," the young man breathed into his mouth, delicate hands on either side of Nick's face, pulling him closer. "Oh, Nicky, please..."

And that was all he needed to fall recklessly right over that precipice. Within minutes, he was inside of Greg, moving against him as he held him in his arms. Greg's hands were everywhere, on his back and his shoulders and his arms, whispering into his ear, and Nick almost couldn't discern the difference between his voice and his touch, it was like he was everything all at once. And when he felt that familiar yet new throbbing around his cock, felt the familiar throbbing of his own, felt Greg gripping his body closer, heard him sigh his name so softly into his ear -- "Oh, Nicky...Nicky, Nicky, yes..." -- he knew he would never be the same.

--

To be continued, because I feel like there's more. Also, the study Greg is doing already exists, no infringement was meant on behalf of those way intelligent scientists. The next chapter isn't going to be written until after the season premiere. I'm not sure if I want to incorporate it into the story yet, so don't expect another update for another week or so. Sorry!


	5. Chapter 5

This takes place during "For Gedda." The next chapter will possibly follow "For Warrick" or take place immediately afterwards, so if you haven't seen either yet, please don't read this, it'll seriously ruin it for you. Obviously, I haven't seen "For Warrick" yet either, so the ending to this may change slightly after it airs. Or probably not because I'm lazy and I feel that my ending will match closely to what actually happens. We'll see.

Also, this was incredibly difficult to write. If it shows, I apologize.

--

A few months. It had been a few months since Greg Sanders had come into Nick's world like a tornado, and he didn't show any signs of leaving. The young man was always here at his apartment, sleeping on his bed and stealing his covers, taking over his bathroom counter with gels and waxes and whatever the fuck putty was, crowding up his fridge with exotic foods and wine, blasting weird music from the stereo, and committed to driving Nick crazy.

He wasn't really sure how it happened. Well, he was pretty sure it involved a home-cooked dinner followed by an intense make-out session, but beyond that, he wasn't sure how it happened. Greg just...came over one day. And the next. And every day after that. They started driving to and from work in the same car. Shopping at the same grocery store, at the same time, pushing the same buggy. Sleeping in the same bed. And Nick never asked Greg to leave. So Greg never left.

He was currently snoring away on the couch, his feet splayed out over Nick's lap as the senior CSI watched television after a long shift. It still amazed him that Greg could fall asleep almost on command. It was something he didn't have to work for, just a decision he could make and he was out like a light. Nick's mind was still racing after the long shift they'd had, and he prayed it would calm down so he could sleep before the next one. He leaned his head back against the couch, his beer sitting in his lap. Traced his fingers over the hair on Greg's legs, a sensation still unfamiliar to him. The thought that he could still be so immensely attracted to another man like he was Greg was still hard to grasp.

But he couldn't really think about that right now. All he could think about was Warrick sitting in that interrogation room, scared and alone, accused of a murder Nick was sure he didn't commit. All he could think about was coming into that crime scene and seeing his friend sitting in the back of the cop car, eyes wild, covered in blood and God-knew-what-else. They had been ordered to go, told that day shift was taking over and there was nothing they could do. And while it seemed logical, it certainly didn't seem right.

He briefly wondered how he could've let his happen. Warrick was his friend -- his _best friend_ -- and he had abandoned him over the past few months, spending all of his time with Greg. He should've seen this coming, he did see it in hindsight, could see the self-destructiveness, the obsession, the changes in his personality and habits, and yet he'd done nothing.

"What time is it?" he heard from next to him, Greg murmuring quietly, looking at him through half-opened eyes.

"Noon."

"You should get some rest," Greg said, sitting up and turning around so that he was leaning against Nick's side. Nick placed an arm around his shoulders, his hand trailing over the fair skin of Greg's back. He fingered the pajama bottoms, slipped his fingers into the seam and rested his hand on Greg's hip. Greg wrapped an arm around Nick's waist, hand traveling up his shirt and resting on his heart.

"Yeah," Nick said, looking down at the man beside him. Greg smiled and it was like his eyes said everything. Nick's heart raced and he shifted uncomfortably, before getting up and walking towards the kitchen to get another beer. He didn't like this feeling, he didn't like being so...out of control. He didn't like the tornado in his life, messing with his space and leaving everything in disarray. It was scary and maybe a little bit thrilling, but mostly scary. It was starting to grate on his nerves, and the events with Warrick were starting to make him realize what he was abandoning to have...this. Whatever it was.

"Are you okay?" Greg asked from the doorway, startling Nick. He stood upright from the fridge, another beer in his hand. "Do you mind?"

"Sure," Nick replied, handing Greg the beer, reaching into the fridge for another one. "I wish I could just fall asleep like you. How do you do it?"

"I just clear my head," Greg replied, shrugging as he popped the cap. "No use in worrying about things I can't control."

Nick almost scoffed, catching Greg narrowing his eyes and knitting his brow. "Sorry, man. It's just...nothing. Just can't stop thinking about Warrick."

Greg seemed to accept that as he went back into the living room, laying back on the couch and cradling his beer on his belly. Nick sat down and they resumed their positions, resumed their current roles.

"What are we doing?"

"Drinking a beer," Nick replied, but he knew that wasn't what Greg was asking. It was something that had been weighing down their relationship lately -- or, whatever you wanted to call it. He closed his eyes in frustration, images flashing through his mind:

_"Do you want to come out tonight?"_

_"Where?"_

_"To Tanqueray's? I'm meeting my friends there."_

_"No, I'm pretty tired. I think I'm just going to hit the bed."_

_"Come on, the night is young for us!"_

_"Really, Greg...I'm beat."_

Another:

_A brush of his hand on the way home from work, startling Nick. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, ignoring the fire on his skin, the heat from those eyes focused on him._

And another:

_"Hey, Nick!"_

_"Mrs. Whitaker! How are you?"_

_"I'm fine, honey. Who is your friend? I've seen you around here a lot lately."_

_"I'm Greg, Nick's -- "_

_"New room mate. This is my new room mate."_

And while Greg had seemed to take it all in stride, he could see it in his eyes that it was something that was in his head constantly. Nick wasn't trying to be rude or mean, he was just trying to be cautious. After all, it had only been a few months.

"That's not -- " Greg, now, interrupting his thoughts, but Nick interrupted him.

"Warrick is in jail and you want to talk about something else?" he spat, and Greg removed his legs from Nick's lap, sitting up quickly, spilling some beer onto his lap. "We can't just sit here and do nothing."

"Nick, we can't do anything," Greg reminded him, wiping at the beer with his hand. "We aren't allowed to."

"The hell with that," he said, putting his beer on the table heavily, springing up from the couch and walking into his bedroom. "I'm going back to the crime lab."

"To do what, exactly?" Greg asked, following him down the hall. Nick moved to his closet, seeing not only his clothes but Greg's, the bright colors and crazy patterns. The long jeans and weird zip-up jackets with buttons and patches and logos. "If we investigate anything, it's not going to hold up in court. You know that."

"I have to at least try!" he nearly shouted, turning to face Greg. "At least then maybe I'll be able to sleep at night knowing I did what I could."

Greg sighed, his eyes cast to the floor. "Then do what you have to do."

"I am," he replied tersely, grabbing a new set of clothes and throwing them onto the bed. "I'm gonna shower."

"Can I join you?" the young man asked, his eyes now meeting Nick's, a small smile on his lips.

"Can you think about something else right now besides sex?" he asked, his anger flaring, possibly misdirected but he didn't care. He was upset and Greg was the closest thing to him right now.

The young man opened his mouth as if to say something, but closed it with a snap. "I was going to go with you," he finally said, his hands help up in surrender, perhaps defense.

"I don't think that's a good idea right now," Nick stated, saw Greg's expression change from annoyance to confusion to hurt in split-seconds. "I just need to do this, Greg. Just go home, okay? You have your trip to worry about."

Greg nodded, his jaw set so hard Nick could swear he was going to grind his teeth. Then, with audible irritation: "Fine."

"Thanks," Nick replied, with as much force. He turned towards the hallway, calling, "Have fun on your book tour!"

"It's a meeting with publishers!"

"Whatever!"

He heard the door slam, and Nick finally had silence. Yet somehow, it wasn't the solace he'd expected.

--

It seemed as if Nick hadn't been the only one with the idea to come in during his time off. Grissom and Catherine had never left, the night technicians were swarming, and even Brass had stuck around. Nick was almost ashamed of himself for waiting this long to come back, but he knew the short respite he'd had at home was a welcomed recharge for the day and night ahead of him.

They'd gotten a lot done before nightfall. The numerous high velocity blood stains had all been typed and matched to Lou Gedda thanks to Wendy. The five expended cartridge cases recovered from the body and the scene had all been processed by Bobby and learned to have come from Warrick's service pistol. And Dr. Robbins had concluded that the victim had been bound an beaten approximately an hour prior to death.

"Okay," Grissom was saying, as they sat around one of the conference tables -- including Greg, who had somehow managed to pull himself away from packing long enough to lend a hand. "If this were any other suspect, what would be our conclusion?"

The table was silent. The answer hung in the air, looming over them like a dark cloud, but no one wanted to say it. Grissom looked at Catherine, Catherine looked at Nick, Nick looked at Greg, and Greg said, "That he did it."

Nick set his jaw, anger boiling in his blood. How he could say it so casually, just sit there looking so indifferent, as if this wasn't their friend, just some coworker that --

"Which is what Warrick told internal affairs," Grissom stated, interrupting Nick's train of thought before it could seriously derail. He looked at his superior, startled and surprised, his expression reflected in his coworkers' faces.

"He confessed?" Catherine asked.

"No," Grissom clarified, "but he didn't deny it. He says he can't remember."

"Yeah, we've all heard that one before," Greg said, quietly, almost under his breath.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Nick asked, his eyes afire with disgust.

"It's not supposed to mean anything," Greg shot back, and while his tone was calm, Nick could see the annoyance in his eyes. "We're just talking."

"We can't just sit here and watch him go down!" Nick exclaimed.

"We're not going to," Catherine interjected. "He's asked for an attorney, we'll give him a shark."

"The only thing the jury is going to see is a rogue cop with a vendetta," Greg continued. "I've been there before. They're going to crucify him."

"Hey, guys." Henry -- thank God, Henry. Nick focused elsewhere besides the smart-mouthed punk sitting across from him, trying to listen to the toxicology technician but all he could hear were Greg's comments, cutting into him over and over again. "There was chloroform in Lou Gedda's blood and tissue. Chloroform gets metabolized in the body pretty quickly, and it's excreted by breathing. So Gedda must've been killed soon after he was dosed."

"Warrick went there with a gun," Catherine pointed out. "Why would he use chloroform if he was going to shoot him?"

"Maybe to subdue him into the barber's chair?" Greg asked.

"So he intended to torture him?" Catherine blurted out, her expression showing her confusion.

Greg opened his mouth, about to say the unthinkable when Nick spat, "No. No, not Warrick. No way."

"You know," Grissom said, "chloroform exposure can result in short term amnesia. Warrick says he can't remember anything after going into Gedda's office. Where's the tox on Warrick?"

Grissom's eyes were focused on the print-out in front of him as he held out an open hand to Henry, expecting another one. Instead, Henry said simply, "His blood wasn't drawn."

"Why not?" from Catherine, eyes wide.

"The arrest report didn't notice any intoxication at the scene," Henry replied, shrugging. "I guess nobody saw any reason to do it."

"Well, there's a reason now," Grissom stated. He looked at each of them from above wire-rimmed glasses. "Good work, guys. Let's get back to it."

Nick stood from the table, making haste towards Greg's retreating form. His chair scraped loudly against the floor, stumbling back so hard it nearly toppled backwards. He caught Catherine and Grissom's curious eyes, ignored them as he walked quickly down the hallway, watching Greg walk away from him just as casually as he'd said those sharp words.

"Hey, Sanders!" he called, giving Greg pause. The young man turned to look at him, his expression displaying irritation.

"Stokes," he replied, a tight smile on his lips.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" he asked, pulling him aside by the sleeve of his jacket. Greg pulled away from him roughly, moving closer to Nick, who stood up straighter in turn, instinctively trying to make himself seem taller, preparing himself for a fight. "You might be mad at me, but it's no reason to take it out on Warrick."

"What are you talking about?" Greg asked, waving a dismissive hand in his direction. "I wasn't taking anything out on Warrick, I was just talking."

"Oh, please! You were practically booking him for murder!"

"Whatever, Nick," Greg spat back, taking a step away from Nick. "Get over yourself. I was just. Talking."

"Maybe instead of all this 'talking,'" Nick continued, taking a step forward, "you can do a little more helping."

"Helping?" Greg nearly shouted, followed by a scoff. "Wendy and I have been working our asses off trying to process every piece of DNA in that room! What have you been doing, Nick?"

"What have I -- ?" he began, but stopped, irate, stepping impossibly close to Greg, getting in his face. "Do you really want to do this right here, Sanders?"

"Oh, I'll do this right here, _Stokes_," Greg replied, returning the sentiment.

"Guys!" Catherine put an arm out in front of Nick, stepping in between the two men, forcing space between them. "Guys. Calm down. This isn't helping Warrick. Greg, get back to DNA, work your magic. Okay?" The two men stared at each other from over Catherine, eyes wild with anger, muscles tense, fists clenched, ready to fight. "Okay??"

"Okay," Greg conceded, relaxing, turning slowly and walking away. Nick watched him leave, his eyes following the young man until he turned the corner.

"Is there something going on between you and Greg?" Catherine asked, startling Nick back to the present. He looked at her, surprised.

"Something going on between me and Sanders?" he managed to ask, his voice thick in his throat.

"You've been avoiding each other like the plague since you got here," she stated, her brow furrowed. "I thought you two were getting close."

"Getting close?"

"If you're going to repeat everything I say," she responded, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, "then this conversation is going to be twice as long."

"Sorry," he apologized, shaking his head, shaking the fog from his brain. "Just...stress."

"Warrick doesn't need us fighting right now," she said, placing a comforting hand on his arm. "I know it's hard, but we have to work together. Just calm down, go take a walk. Come back with a clear head. Warrick needs it."

"Yeah...you're right," Nick confirmed, nodding in agreement. He indicated the space Greg used to inhabit. "That kid just drives me crazy sometimes."

"That's his job," Catherine replied, smiling. "He doesn't get paid more for it, it just comes with the package. In fact, I think it was on his resume when he applied for the job."

Nick rolled his eyes. If only she knew how right she was.

--

Nick's day didn't seem to be getting any better. He clutched the toxicology report tightly in his hand, searching through the halls for his boss. His heart had been ticking erratically while waiting for the results, standing over Henry's shoulder as the man ran Warrick's blood. He was hoping, praying, that he could resume normal sinus rhythm when the print-out hit his fingers, but the beating remained the same, only this time, his heart sank to his stomach, and now that was reverberating in his body too.

"Here, put this on," he heard Grissom's voice saying, following it into one of the evidence rooms.

"Henry did a comprehensive drug test for chloroform, as well as a head space run for volatiles and solvents," Nick interrupted, stepping into the room, watching Grissom's expression, seeing it as full of hope as Nick's had been. "Everything came back negative."

"The half-life of chloroform in a human being is 1.5 hours," Hodges stated, every the buzz-kill. "It's virtually undetectable in seven to ten hours."

"We drew the blood too late," Nick added, running a hand through his hair. "It's still possible Warrick was dosed, we just can't prove it."

He was grateful when Grissom gave him something to do, asking him to help with their experiment of explaining the spatter patterns in Warrick's shirt. He couldn't get his mind around all of this; he was running himself ragged, he just hoped it wasn't into the ground. At least he could take some amusement out of assisting in spraying Hodges with red paint.

"Similar void in the spatter pattern," Grissom deduced, examining the extra shirt with a magnifying glass.

"Consistent, but not conclusive," Nick said, hearing the dread in his own voice. "There's probably a dozen different ways to explain those voids. Doesn't rule out Warrick as the shooter."

"But it gives us an alternative explanation of the evidence," his boss stated, his eyes sparkling. "And if we're right, Warrick was framed."

Nick nodded, satisfied for the time being, but he wondered when the next hurdle was going to hit him as he stepped back into the hallway. He felt as if his heart should be soaring, but he was so tired of jumping through hoops, he just wanted to go home and drink a beer and lie in bed with --

With who? With Greg, the same man who was trying to throw Warrick in jail? Okay, maybe he shouldn't go _that_ far, but he was upset, and rightfully so. Negativity wasn't going to help anyone, especially now. They had to be positive and think progressively, not sit there and tell them what they already knew.

The fact that he even thought about finding comfort in another man was a whole other can of worms, and he chose not to focus on that, at the present time. He had plenty of anger to keep his brain occupied for the moment.

He smiled with incredulity at himself as he walked through the crime lab, catching Catherine's fleeting form.

"Hey, Cath, wait up," he called to her, trotting to catch up to her. "I talked to the detective of organized crime. He's sending over a list of all the people that wanted Gedda dead. It's a long list."

"Well, cross-reference it with any of Warrick's convictions that have it out for him," she said, and he could see the desperation in her face, trying to think of anything that could help. "He could be trying to kill two birds with one stone."

"You -- "

"Hey!" Greg Sanders, chirping cheerfully, the one person he could hope to avoid right now, but it was a small world around here. Nick quickly turned and walked in the opposite direction, unable to look at the young man without wanting to yell at him, tell him that he was angry, that Greg shouldn't say such nasty things about Nick's best friend, that he should be working harder, that he was sorry and he didn't mean to --

He rubbed a weary hand over his eyes, leaning against the wall, trying to get his head on straight. For Warrick, he thought. He had to keep going for Warrick, and that meant not thinking about Greg Sanders for five whole minutes of his life.

"Hey." Softer this time, from beside him. He opened his eyes, looking at the younger man, standing there with his hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes cast to the ground. "I don't want to fight with you anymore."

"So, that's it?" Nick asked, eyebrows raised. "The fight's over?"

Greg offered him a small smile, shrugging. "Yeah. Is that okay?"

Nick rolled his eyes, tried to fight the smile tugging at his own lips. This kid was really incredible. "Yeah."

Greg looked up at him, coming closer, but not too close. "Are we okay?"

Nick nodded. "I don't know a lot about processing DNA, but I can try to help if you and Wendy need a hand."

"You sound like a man with a plan," Greg said, patting his shoulder playfully. "I got a pair of gloves with your name on it. Besides, Wendy likes looking at you."

"I hope she isn't the only one."

"Not a chance."

--

It was over. It was all finally over, and Nick was able to sit down with his family away from home, glad to let out a deep breath and put this all behind him. Warrick was free, and while he didn't exactly look his best right now, his friend looked a lot better than he had in that interrogation room. A rogue cop with a vendetta, as Greg had explained earlier, but not Warrick. Someone else that they were sure to catch, eventually, but now wasn't the time for that. Now was the time for runny eggs and burnt bacon and greasy hash browns amongst friends.

"It's pretty lame, I know," Catherine was saying, laughing. "It just reminds me: What does it take for them to server turkey bacon in this place?"

"Turkey bacon's not gonna make the food better here," Nick stated.

"Well, fortunately," Grissom said, "we don't come here for the food."

"No," Catherine admitted, looking at the plate in front of her with disdain.

"Well," Warrick interjected, shrugging casually, "as far as I'm concerned, there's no place I'd rather be."

"Aww," Catherine said, grinning.

Nick felt a smile on his face. He looked at Greg, watching him, hardly able to wait to get home and be with the younger man. He didn't even want to have sex with him, although that would be nice too, to let off all of this steam he'd been bottling up. But, more importantly, he just wanted to lay on the couch next to him, just wanted to feel warm skin against his own, hot breath on his neck and long, slender fingers tracing patterns over his skin idly as they watched TV. He looked at the man seated next to him, the man seated next to him looked back. A smile was all it took for Nick to know that Greg was sharing those exact thoughts, and he wondered when they'd become those people that could have a conversation without saying a word.

"Anything else?" the waitress asked, a pretty redhead in a pink uniform, and Nick couldn't help but be distracted by her, taken off guard by her interruption

"That's it," Nick replied, feeling her eyes on him, and while he should've remembered the man next to him, he was flattered.

"See you next time?"

Nick felt a hard kick in his shin, jumping in his seat, eyes wide. "Yes. Thank you."

"Still there?" Warrick asked, beside him, as he grabbed the check. "I'll take this."

"Thank you, Warrick," Grissom said, as Warrick glanced at the bill, his expression surprised for a moment before he smiled. "Okay, I'm going home." The older man stood and placed a hand on Warrick's shoulder, leaning close to his CSI, one of several. "Get some sleep tonight."

Catherine stood next, her face soft, flawless even in this fluorescent light. "If you ever need anybody to talk to, you know how to get a hold of me, huh?" She kissed his face very sweetly before waving at Greg and playfully punching Nick's arm. "Goodnight, boys."

"Well, it's just us," Nick said, leaning back in his chair. "What do you say, Serpico? Let's get a beer."

"Oh, no," Warrick protested, holding up his hand.

"Come on, you're a free man now," Greg said, grinning.

"This free man needs a free shower," he stated, pushing his chair back to stand. "I think, uh, you need to take a hard look at that blond."

"She's not blond," Nick replied, his brow furrowed.

"I know," Warrick said, winking, giving Nick pause. "Goodnight."

"Hey," Nick began, wanted to say more but the words caught in his throat, unwilling to roll over his tongue. Instead, he took Warrick's hand. "I'm really glad you're okay. I'll call you later."

He watched him go, his heart racing, unwilling to ask himself just what Warrick had meant by that. Surely, he hadn't meant... He felt another kick in his shin, this one playful, gentle. Looked at the man next to him. Couldn't take his eyes off of him to look at any redhead or any other blond in the room.

"I have a plane to catch," Greg reminded him. "Can you please take me home?"

"What's wrong with your car?" Nick asked, and then pointed. "And you'd better watch it. If I get a kick for every dumb thing I do, I don't think I'll be walking for much longer."

"Nothing," Greg replied, grinning. "It's just that, you're taking me to the airport tomorrow, so I thought you might want to save some gas and just take me back to your place instead of coming to get me."

"Oh, I am, am I?"

"Yes."

Just like that. A look and a smile and a laugh, and he was all Greg's. The man could've asked him to _drive_ to Los Angeles, and he probably would've said yes. Then again, Nick knew he had always been a sucker for a pretty face.

--

Kissing. Of course, they were kissing. Nick had him pressed up against the window of the passenger's side, his fingers in his hair, pulling him close and pushing him against the door at the same time. All of his pent up frustrations from the day were begging to be let out, and he knew exactly who he was going to take it out on. He heard Greg whimper from beneath his lips, felt desperate hands tugging at his shirt, felt searing fingers find his skin.

"When I get you home," Nick began, but a tongue down his throat stopped him from voicing his thoughts any further. It didn't matter anyway. Greg knew what was coming. He had to have felt it in the erection against his thigh, as raging like a fire hose.

"When you get me home?" Greg asked, pulling away long enough to smile at him, lips swollen from their fervent kissing.

"You're going to wish you never talked to me like that in the hallway," he finished, his grin wicked, a hand moving to Greg's throat.

"Is that a threat?"

"You bet it is," Nick said, opened his mouth to say more, but a crackling on the police scanner drew his attention. Officer down. All units respond.

"Where is that?" Greg asked, his eyes focused on the radio. As if answering him, the operator responded with the exact location. The two men looked at each other, and Nick was sure the confusion in Greg's face was reflected in his own. "That's...where we are."

Nick sat back in his seat, reaching across Greg's lap to the glove compartment and popping it open, gripping the spare piece he kept there. He cocked the Smith & Wesson, a gift given to him by his father, his free hand on the handle of the door.

"Nick, don't go out there." It was almost a question, but the hand on his arm was definitely a statement. "Let's just wait until backup gets here."

"I'm just going to check it out," he said, opening the door. He stepped outside, looking back at Greg. He was surprised when he saw fright on the young man's face. When had Greg been afraid of investigating? "Stay here."

"Don't be stupid, Nick," Greg pleaded, and Nick realized the fear wasn't for his own life, it was for Nick's. The shock almost felt like a bullet through his own heart, ripping him open and leaving him breathless. "Just wait."

He couldn't say anything. Instead, he shut the door. He swallowed hard, gun drawn but lowered to the ground as he stepped through the dimly lit parking lot, traveling low between the cars, heading for the scene, back through the alleyway. He saw headlights, recognized the car, stopped. Saw the figures on the pavement, saw Grissom cradling another man in his arms.

"Nick."

He turned, raised his weapon. Saw Greg's hands shoot up. He just lowered his gun, his voice caught, his throat dry, his mind racing.

"Nick, just wait," he said, but it was too late. He was running, running to his boss, running to his friend. Running to catch something that was already gone, because it was already too late. He was too late.

--

To be continued.


	6. Chapter 6

Nick's apartment was quiet. There was no loud, weird music; no chattering aimlessly for hours; no video games on the TV; and there was definitely no laughter. Greg was in Los Angeles meeting with publishers, and Warrick was in the ground, meeting his Maker. So Nick sat alone, nursing a beer as he sat on the couch, in silence. It was where he'd remained for the past three days, when he wasn't at work. He didn't know what else to do. It felt wrong to be going about his daily routine when Warrick was never going to be able to do the same again.

That wasn't his only excuse. It was hard to function when all he could think about was what had happened. Warrick was gone, and Nick should've done something. What did McKeen say? As Nick was waving a gun in his face? Trying desperately not to shoot his fucking brains out?

_"What kind of friend are you?"_

Oh, yeah. That was it. And it really made Nick think: What kind of friend _was_ he? He'd just told himself days ago that he'd seen the changes in his friend's attitude, in his behavior, in his face, and he had done nothing. He'd been so focused on his own life -- on Greg -- that he'd failed miserably in doing anything to stop Warrick from spiraling downward. And even _after_ the fact, even _after_ admitting that to himself, he'd let Warrick walk out the door of the diner alone. Let him walk out into the street all by himself when he knew -- Nick _knew -- _that there were people out there that wanted him dead. And all he'd thought about was how he wanted to go home with Greg, not Warrick and his safety.

He leaned back against the couch, sighing heavily as he closed his eyes. He remembered the last time he'd see his friend. Grissom cradling his body in his arms, shirt drenched with blood, eyes focused on the man beneath him, begging him to hang on, please just hang on...

The knock at the door startled him, breaking his thoughts. He stood up and crossed the room, although he really wasn't up for visitors. Catherine had been calling him constantly, needing someone to talk to, and while he had appeased her for the first couple days, he had begun to ignore her for the past two. He couldn't handle it anymore, and he didn't care if it was rude. He just hoped it wasn't her at the door.

It wasn't. He could see Greg through the peephole, looking somber. He looked up, saw the dark void from where Nick was watching, and raised his eyebrows expectantly. Nick sighed. The young man wasn't supposed to be back for another week; the meeting with publishers was supposed to extend further, to visiting his family and spending the weekend. But here he was, on Nick's doorstep, looking weary and tired.

Nick pulled open the door. "Hey."

"Hey," Greg replied, offering him a smile. He looked away for a moment, shifted uncomfortably. "Um...can I come in?"

"Of course."

Nick stepped aside, allowing Greg to pass. Noticed his wrinkled clothes, his dingy jeans, the mess of hair on his head. Greg turned to look at him, must've realized the attention he was getting because he attempted to smooth down his hair. He stood there, in the living room, didn't sit maybe due to the fact that Nick remained standing.

"I came straight from the airport," he stated, as if to offer an excuse for his unkempt appearance.

"What are you doing here?"

Greg shrugged, smiled almost sheepishly -- adorably. "I missed you."

He wanted to tell him that he missed him too, that he couldn't wait for him to come back to Nick's apartment, to come back home. Wanted to lay down on the couch with no television, no music, no video games, just wanted to hear Greg talk. He'd never been able to believe that Greg's incessant talking could be comforting, but it was, and it allowed him to take his mind off of everything else and focus on the words coming at him.

He wanted to tell him all of that. He wanted to say anything. But he kept hearing McKeen in his brain, kept hearing those words over and over again.

_What kind of friend are you?_

So instead, he said nothing.

Greg cleared his throat, looking around the apartment. "How, uh...how have you been?"

"I can't do this anymore," he blurted out, catching the look of surprise on the young man's face. "I can't."

"What?" Greg asked, confused.

"Greg, Warrick is dead, and it's my -- "

"Don't even say that!" Greg interrupted, moving closer to Nick. "It isn't your fault! How can you even think that?"

"I abandoned him!" Nick shouted, hands held out in desperation. "He was my friend and I abandoned him. I knew what was happening and I let it go. I saw him..._change_ and I did nothing! I've been so wrapped up in my own life -- so wrapped up in _you_! I can't stop thinking about _you_, and I let this happen, Greg. I can't do it anymore. I can't!"

Greg was quiet for a moment, his eyes aimed directly at Nick's. "So what...does that mean?"

"I just need my space, Greg," Nick said, leaning against the dining room table, casting his eyes to the ground. "I need a break from this."

When Nick looked up, he wished he hadn't. He could see the hurt in those large, brown eyes. The young man looked away, nodding, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. And, for once in Greg Sanders' life, he was without words. He just made his way towards the door, and Nick should've let him leave, should've just let him go out the door, but instead, he added:

"I think you should take your things."

Greg's mouth formed a perfect 'O' as he looked back at Nick, before closing it with a snap and clenching his jaw. He saw that pink tongue skim over white teeth, and he could almost see the words in Greg's head fighting to stay there. They lost.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" Greg said simply, before moving into the kitchen and grabbing a trash bag from under the sink. "I can't believe I came back for you."

"Nobody asked you to," Nick replied, tersely. "I just need some space, Greg. Can't you respect that?"

"I'm getting my shit, aren't I?" Greg asked, making his way to the bathroom. Nick remained in the living room, listening to the clattering and banging, hearing the anger drifting down the hallway. He heard the noise, wanting to take it all back but McKeen kept talking to him and he needed to get his head empty of all of this, especially that damn voice. He couldn't do that with Greg here, distracting him until night time, when he would lay down and be left with his own thoughts after Greg fell asleep. He needed to deal with this, alone.

Greg returned to the living room, breathing hard as he clutched the trash bag full of his things in his fist. He looked at Nick, and the pain in Greg's face was felt in Nick's chest.

"When you're done with this pity party you're having," Greg stated, his words edged with unadulterated hurt and anger, "try remembering who was there for you through all this, even when you treated me like shit."

Nick didn't say anything. He couldn't. Instead, he only winced as the door slammed closed. Sat down on the couch and resumed his position, nursing a beer in silence, alone.

--

To be continued...


	7. Chapter 7

"Whatever is going on between you two stops_ now_."

Grissom was condoning them like a good father did when his children were fighting. The older man's voice betrayed his anger and frustration, although Nick couldn't tell what his face looked like because he was too busy examining his shoes. He could see Greg in his peripheral vision, his eyes focused on the wall, jaws set together firmly. Could see the dirt on his clothes and his tousled hair, knew he must've looked just as awful.

Needless to say, it wasn't going well. When Nick had told Greg to take this things and leave, he didn't realize the consequences of his actions. He didn't realize how much he'd hurt him, he didn't realize how..._serious_ the relationship between the two men had been to Greg. This was all so new to Nick, having a relationship with another man. While he genuinely enjoyed spending time with Greg, liked having him around and talking to him, watching television with him, eating dinner with him, sleeping next to him, sleeping _with_ him, he didn't think it was anything serious, but Greg's behavior at work was telling him otherwise.

And when he went home to silence, when he went to bed alone, he hadn't realized how much he was going to miss him. But that was beside the point. Right now, he was talking about work, and the awful environment Nick had inadvertently created.

He'd asked Greg to run the DNA on a scene for him while the young man had worked a shift in the lab. There had been no response, and the results hadn't come in until the next night, when the day shift had processed them. They took separate cars to a scene in the woods, and while he didn't have proof, he could swear someone had kicked mud onto his newly waxed Denali while he wasn't looking. What was worse, was that Greg had begun to hide his coffee -- the only decent coffee in this place. And Nick had yet to find where he kept it. He'd even checked in the young man's locker when he was busy at a scene.

The piece that took the cake was when Nick and Greg had been working a scene in the desert. Someone had misplaced a vital piece of evidence. It definitely _hadn't_ been Nick, he knew that much. And perhaps it hadn't been Greg either, there were plenty of people out there that night, but Nick's anger had flared. After what had happened during that wedding when Nick's truck had been stolen, he had been very careful making sure evidence was where it was supposed to be. And now bloodwork went missing? Nick couldn't afford another write-up, he would be due for a suspension -- without pay.

"I didn't touch it," Greg had stated, annoyed. "I wasn't even the one that collected it. I was working the perimeter."

"I put it right there!" Nick had exclaimed, pointing to his gear. He had laid it right on top of the case. "It was the first thing I got and I put it right there."

"Good for you," Greg replied, eyebrows raised. "I didn't touch it. Good luck."

"Good luck?" Nick asked, grabbing Greg's arm as he tried to walk away. Greg pulled away roughly, looking at him with continued irritation. "We just lost a piece of evidence and you say 'good luck?'"

"No, _you_ lost it," Greg retorted, a smirk on his face that Nick wanted to wipe off, but not with his own mouth. "_I_ was working the perimeter. Over there."

"This is _our_ scene," Nick reminded him, stepping closer. "_Our_ case. If you don't want to help me, that's fine. But when the killer gets away, it won't be on me."

"Really?" Greg asked, looking down at him, and Nick tried to straighten his posture and make himself seem taller, but Greg had a way of standing over him, those long legs going on for miles. It intimidated Nick, something he could've never imagined, that sweet, goofy Greg could seem threatening. "Because I don't remember having a reputation for misplacing evidence. I have a feeling that when this gets to Ecklie, I'm not going to be the one at a disciplinary hearing."

And that was it. He hit him. Nick reached out quick and fast, and knocked Greg square in the jaw, knocking him backward, knocking him into the sand. Greg looked up at him, his hand on his mouth, his expression showing his shock, transforming into realization and then into pure rage. He scrambled up fast, faster than Nick knew he could move, wrapped his arms around Nick's waist and took him to the ground.

He grabbed Greg's arms and turned them, forcing Greg underneath, felt Greg's hands around his own arms, trying to regain power, but Nick was stronger. He pulled Greg off the ground and pushed him back down, heard the air escape from Greg's lungs, the groan escape from his lips. Felt a knee at his ribs, and then the air was gone from his own lungs, the wind knocked out of him. Greg took advantage of the moment of weakness, rolling them, and Nick was on the ground once more. Greg raised his fist, pure fire in his large black eyes, but the blow never came.

"Stop it!"

Grissom's voice, and then the weight above Nick was removed from him, although one last kick to his leg shocked him. He moved to attack and felt hands around his own biceps, holding him back. A police officer, who should've been stronger than Nick, but the adrenaline pumping through his veins was enough to give him Hulk-strength.

"_Enough!_" Grissom shouted, his voice breaking the trance Nick was in. He could hear his breath, his chest heaving, eyes focused on the man before him and he tried to calm down but he couldn't stop his hands from shaking. Their supervisor released his hands from Greg's arms, stepping between them, eyes traveling between them. "I want you two to pack up your stuff and report to my office. Immediately."

And here they were. Fidgeting like school boys in the principal's office.

"Take the rest of the night off. Now get out of my office," Grissom stated, his voice firm, his eyes just as much. "If I hear about this again, I'm going to suspend both of you -- without pay."

"Gris, " Nick began, but --

"Goodbye."

Nick rolled his eyes, mostly at himself. He stood, following Greg out of the room. The young man had a quick pace with those long legs, but Nick managed to keep up and meet him in the locker room, watching him forcefully take off his shirt and jam it into the locker, grabbing a fresh tee shirt and pulling it on. Nick moved to his own locker but only grabbed his jacket, not having an extra shirt inside. He turned and looked at Greg, wincing as the locker slammed closed, echoing in the small room.

"Greg," Nick tried, but it was almost as if he didn't hear him. When he didn't continue, the young man looked up, eyebrows raised expectantly. Nick sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Do you...want to come over tonight?"

"No. What?" Greg asked, incredulous. "No."

"Why not?" Nick asked, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.

Instead, Greg's face said it all. "Because I don't want to talk to you anymore."

"Anymore?"

"Yes," Greg clarified, nodding. "For the rest of my life? I don't want to talk to you. You're a jerk."

"I know," Nick conceded, stepping closer, so that the bench was the only thing separating them. He was relieved when Greg didn't step back. "I'm sorry. I just...we can talk about it at home."

Home. Their home. Because it was only Nick's apartment when Greg wasn't there, and Nick hated that.

"No," Greg replied. Nick looked up, surprised. "It's going to take way more than that to make me come back."

"Oh, yeah?" Nick asked, smiling. "Like what?"

"Like this is going to be more than just a fling to you," Greg said, pointing to the ground to punctuate his sentence. "This is going to be serious."

"It is serious."

"No," Greg stated, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. "If this was serious, you wouldn't have told me to take my stuff. You would've asked me to sit down and talk."

"So...serious like...What? Boyfriend serious?" Nick asked, his smile gone. "I don't know if I can do that."

"You've never been a boyfriend before?" Greg deadpanned.

"Of course I have," Nick stated, irritated. "Just not with a guy. This is all new to me, Greg. I don't know what to do."

"Kiss me."

Nick looked around. The locker room was empty, but who knew for how long? He looked back at Greg, eyes wide. "Right now?"

"No, later," Greg shot back. "Yes, now."

"But what if -- ?"

"Just do it!"

"I..." he began, but couldn't find the words, his eyes shifting between Greg and the door.

Greg groaned, his frustration visible. "You have me, Nick! You have all of me!" He looked away, looked back, pained. "I just need to know that I have you. Kiss me, Nick, please. Kiss me."

So he did. He reached forward and put a possessive hand around the younger man's neck, pulled him close and pressed his lips firmly to the ones in front of him. His heart was racing with fear and exhilaration, but more so with the wonder of what was going to happen next. Not only with this kiss but with every single one after that. They pulled away, breathless. And someone could've come in and out of the locker room but he wouldn't have noticed. He could only focus on the man in front of him, dirty and disheveled and vulnerable and his, all his.

"I'm sorry I was a jerk," Nick said, softly. "I didn't mean it."

"It's okay," Greg replied, his brown eyes liquid fire. "We can talk about it at home."

And so they did.

--

END. Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
